Glamorama

  The sound of Counting Crows on a stereo coming from the giant space in the middle of the house is what I’m moving toward and as I turn a steel column what comes into view is a massive pistachio-colored sofa and a big-screen TV with the volume off—Beavis and Butt-head sitting rigid—along with an unplugged pinball machine standing next to a long bar made of distressed granite where two backgammon boards sit and I’m coming up behind a guy wearing a USA Polo Sport sweatshirt and baggy gray shorts hiked up a little too high and he’s leaning over a computer where diagrams of airplanes keep flashing across the blue screen and on that desk is an Hermès rucksack with a copy of a book by Guy Debord hanging out of it along with various manila envelopes someone’s doodled drawings of caterpillars all over. The guy turns around.

  “I am freezing,” he shouts. “I am fucking freezing.”

  Startled, I just nod and murmur, “Yeah … it’s cold, man.”

  He’s about six foot one with thick black hair cut very short and swept back, his impossibly natural-looking tan covering an underlying pink hue, and when I see those cheekbones I’m immediately thinking: Hey, that’s Bobby Hughes. Dark-green eyes flash over at me and a bleachy white smile lifts up a chiseled jawline.

  “Please allow me to introduce myself,” he says, holding out a hand attached to a muscular forearm, bicep bulging involuntarily. “I’m Bobby.”

  “Hey man,” I say, taking it. “I’m Victor.”

  “Sorry if I’m a little sweaty.” He grins. “I was just down in the gym. But sweet Jesus it’s cold in here. And I have no idea where the goddamn thermostat is.”

  “Oh?” I say, stuck, then try to nod. “I mean … oh.” Pause. “There’s a gym … here?”

  “Yeah”—he gestures with his head—“in the basement.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say, forcing myself to be more casual. “That’s so cool … man.”

  “They’re all at the store,” he says, turning back to the computer, lifting a Diet Coke to his lips. “You’re lucky you’re here—Bruce is cooking tonight.” He turns back around. “Hey, you want some breakfast? I think there’s a bag of croissants in the kitchen somewhere and if Bentley didn’t drink it, maybe some OJ left.”

  Pause. “Oh, that’s okay, that’s okay. I’m cool.” I’m nodding vacantly.

  “You want a Bloody Mary?” He grins. “Or maybe some Visine? Your eyes look a little red, my friend.”

  “No, no …” A pause, a shy smile, an inward breath, then exhaling, barely. “It’s okay. It’s cool.”

  “You sure, guy?” he asks.

  “Um, yeah, uh-huh.”

  Expelled his first term from Yale for “unruly behavior,” Bobby Hughes started modeling convincingly enough for Cerutti at eighteen to skyrocket from that gig into an overnight sensation. This was followed by becoming Armani’s favorite model and then various milliondollar deals, sums unheard of for a man at that time. There was the famous Hugo Boss ad where Bobby was flipping off the camera, the tag line “Does Anybody Really Notice?” below him in red neon letters, and then the historic Calvin Klein commercial of just Bobby in his underwear looking vacant and coughing while a girl’s voice-over whispered, “It will co-opt your ego,” and when GQ still ran models on the cover, Bobby’s face was there endlessly, dead-eyed and poised. He was the boytoy in two Madonna videos, the “sad lost guy” in a Belinda Carlisle clip and shirtless in countless others because he had a set of breathtaking abdominals before anyone was really paying attention to the torso, and he was probably the major force in starting that craze. During his career he walked thousands of runways, garnering the nickname “The Showstopper.” He was on the cover of the Smiths’ last album, Unfortunately. He had a fan club in Japan. He had great press, which always pushed the notion that beneath the drifting surfer-dude image Bobby Hughes was “alert” and had a “multifaceted personality.” He was the highest-paid male model for a moment during the 1980s because he simply had the best features, the most sought-after look, the perfect body. His calendar sold millions.

  He gave his last interview to Esquire during the winter of 1989, which was where he said, not at all defensively, “I know exactly what I’m going to do and where I’m going,” and then he more or less just vacated the New York fashion scene—all this before my life in the city really began, before I was known as Victor Ward, before I met Chloe, before my world began to take shape and started to expand—and then the occasional grainy photograph of him would show up in certain European fashion magazines (Bobby Hughes attending a consulate party in Milan, Bobby Hughes standing in the rain on Wardour Street dressed in Paul Smith green, Bobby Hughes playing volleyball on the beach in Cannes or in the lobby at the Cap d’Antibes at dawn wearing a tuxedo and holding a cigarette, Bobby Hughes asleep in the bulkhead seats on the Concorde), and because he had stopped giving interviews there were always tabloid rumors about his engagement to Tiffani-Amber Thiessen or how he “almost” broke up Liz Hurley and Hugh Grant or how he did break up Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh. He supposedly had firsthand knowledge of certain S&M bars in Santa Monica. He supposedly was going to star in the sequel to American Gigolo. He supposedly had squandered the fortune he’d accumulated on failed restaurants, on horses and cocaine, on a yacht he named Animal Boy. He supposedly was heading back to modeling at an age that was considered “iffy” at best. But he never did.

  And now he’s here in the flesh—four years older than me, just a foot away, tapping keys on a computer terminal, sipping Diet Coke, wearing white athletic socks—and since I’m not really used to being around guys who are so much better looking than Victor Ward, it’s all kind of nerve-racking and I’m listening more intently to him than to any man I’ve ever met because the unavoidable fact is: he’s too good-looking to resist. He can’t help but lure.

  “Um, I’m kind of lost,” I start, hesitantly. “Where … exactly am I?”

  “Oh.” He looks up, stares straight at me, blinks once or twice, then decides something. “You’re in Hampstead.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say, relieved. “My friend Joaquin Phoenix—you know, River’s brother?”

  Bobby nods, staring intently.

  “Well, he’s shooting the new John Hughes movie in, um, Hampstead,” I say, suddenly feeling ridiculous in this robe. “I think,” I add, a little stressed.

  “Oh, that’s cool,” Bobby says, turning back to the computer.

  “Yeah, we saw him at the party last night.”

  “Hey, how was that party?” he asks. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “The party was, well …” Nervously, I try to explain. “Let’s see, who was there? Well, it was in Notting Hill—”

  “Of course,” he says derisively, which almost puts me at ease.

  “Oh gosh, I know, man, I know.” Stuck, just staring at him as he glances back at the computer screen, I tighten the robe around me.

  “It was for the painter Gary Hume, right?” he asks, coaxing.

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “But everyone knew it was really for Patsy and Liam.”

  “Right, right,” he says, tapping three keys and rapidly calling onto the screen more airplane diagrams. “Who was there? What luminaries showed up?”

  “Well, um, Kate Moss and Stella Tennant and Iris Palmer and I think Jared Leto and Carmen Electra and, um, Damon Albarn and … we drank orange punch and … I got pretty wasted … and there were lots of … ice sculptures.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where were you, man?” I ask, finally easing into a more comfortable vibe.

  “I was in Paris.”

  “Modeling?”

  “Business,” he says simply.

  “But not modeling?”

  “No, that’s all over,” he says, checking something in a notebook that lies open next to the computer. “I completed that part of my life.”

  “Oh yeah man,” I say, nodding. “I know what you mean.”

  “Really?” He grins, looking over his shoulder. “Do you?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug.
“I’m thinking of calling it quits too.”

  “So what are you doing in London, then, Victor?” Bobby asks.

  “Off the record?”

  “Modeling?” He grins again.

  “Oh spare me, man, spare me,” I laugh. “No way—I mean, I really want to get out of that, branch out.”

  “It’s a very rough life, right?”

  “Man, it’s so hard.”

  “Potentially devastating.”

  “I’m just kicking back and taking a breather.”

  “I think that’s a smart move.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It can ruin people. I’ve seen people destroyed.”

  “Me too, man. I am so with you.”

  “I have no stomach for it,” he says. “I have absolutely no stomach for it.”

  “But … you have, like, a great stomach, man,” I say, confused.

  “What?” Bobby looks down at himself, realizes where I’m coming from and starts smiling, his confused expression turning sweet. “Oh, right. Thanks. Hmm.”

  “So when did you get in?” I ask, beginning the bonding process.

  “This morning,” he yawns, stretching. “How about you?”

  “A couple days ago,” I tell him.

  “You came in from New York?”

  “Yeah man.”

  “What’s New York like these days?” he asks, concentrating on the screen again. “I’m rarely there. And what I read about I’m not sure I can handle. Maybe I’m just all grown up or something.”

  “Oh, y’know, it’s all kind of, um, bogus, man,” I say. “Young people are such idiots, you know what I’m saying?”

  “People applauding madly as supermodels gyrate down runways? No thanks, man.”

  “Oh man, I am so with you.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “The usual. Modeling. I helped open a club last week.” I pause. “I’m up for a part in Flatliners II.”

  “God, it’s freezing,” he shouts again, hugging himself. “Are you cold too?”

  “I’m a little chilly,” I concede.

  He pads out of the room and from somewhere in the house he yells, “Where is the fucking heater in this place?” and then he calls out, “Should we start a fire?”

  CDs scattered on top of one of the giant speakers include Peter Gabriel, John Hiatt, someone named Freedy Johnston, the last Replacements album. Outside, through glass doors, a small terrace is surrounded by a garden filled with white tulips, and tiny birds congregate on a steel fountain, and as the wind picks up and shadows start crossing the lawn they decide something’s wrong and fly away in unison.

  “So who lives here?” I ask as Bobby pads back into the room. “I mean, I know it’s a set, but it’s pretty nice.”

  “Well, sometimes I rent it from someone,” he says as he heads toward the computer and studies the screen. “And right now I’m sharing it with Tammy and Bruce, who I think you’ve met.”

  “Yeah, they’re cool.”

  “And Bentley Harrolds, who’s an old friend of mine, and Jamie Fields, whom”—a pause, without looking up at me—“I take it you know from college.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I’m nodding. “Right. She’s cool too.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby says wearily, flicking off the screen, sighing. “We’re all pretty damn cool.”

  I consider going somewhere, debate, then decide to press ahead.

  “Bobby?”

  “Yeah?” He’s looking over at me again.

  “I just want to, um, let you know that—this is going to sound really corny—but you were”—I take a deep breath—“a really, like, a really, like an inspiration to a lot of us and you were like a major influence and I just want to let you know that.” I pause, look away, distressed, my eyes watering. “Did I just sound totally weird?”

  Silence, then, “No. No, you didn’t, Victor.” He’s staring at me warmly. “It’s good. I like it. Thank you.”

  Relief washes over me, my throat tightens, and with difficulty, my voice totally strained, I manage, “No problem, man.”

  Voices outside in the yard. A gate opens, then closes. Four gorgeous people dressed in black, wearing sunglasses and carrying chic grocery bags, move through the darkening garden and toward the house. Bobby and I watch them from behind the glass doors.

  “Ah, the troops return,” Bobby says.

  I wave at Jamie as the group walks toward the expanse of window I’m standing behind, but no one waves back. Bentley scowls, flicking away a cigarette. Bruce, holding two bags piled high with groceries, playfully nudges Tammy off the stone path. Jamie strides forward, staring straight ahead impassively, chewing gum.

  “Why can’t they see me?” I’m asking.

  “That’s one-way glass,” Bobby says.

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s … cool.”

  The four of them stagger through a back entrance and into the kitchen, a series of small electronic beeps sounding as someone closes the door. Turning, Bobby and I watch as they drop grocery bags on a large steel counter. We move closer, hitting our marks. Jamie is the first to see us and she whips off her sunglasses, smiling.

  “So you’re awake,” Jamie says, walking toward us.

  I smile at her and as she heads toward me I start expecting a kiss and I close my eyes, bouncing lightly up and down on the soles of my feet. A small rush of lust starts gaining momentum and then gets out of control, shoots out all over the place. But Jamie passes by and I open my eyes and turn around.

  She and Bobby are embracing and he’s kissing her hungrily, making noises. It takes too long for Jamie to notice me standing there staring, and as she pulls back a little Bobby hangs on and won’t let go.

  “You guys meet?” is all Jamie can ask after taking in the expression on my face.

  “Yeah.” I nod.

  “Hey, let go,” Jamie squeals, pushing Bobby off her. “Let go, let go.”

  But Bobby doesn’t—he just keeps leaning in, kissing her face, her neck. I just stand there watching, hot, suddenly clearheaded.

  “I think it’s cocktail hour,” Bentley says, pouting.

  Tammy walks by where I’m standing. “We ran into Buffy. She just got back from climbing Everest. There were two deaths. She lost her cell phone.”

  I have no idea who this is directed at, so I just slowly nod my head.

  “Hey, I’m ravenous,” Bobby says, still holding Jamie in his arms, but she’s not struggling anymore. “When are we eating?” he calls out. “What are we eating?” Then he whispers something into Jamie’s ear and she giggles and then slaps his arms, grabbing at them with both hands where his biceps bulge.

  “I’m making bruschetta,” Bruce calls out from the kitchen. “Porcini risotto, prosciutto and figs, arugula and fennel salad.”

  “Hurry,” Bobby bellows, nuzzling Jamie’s face, squeezing her tighter. “Hurry, Bruce. I’m starving.”

  “Victor, what are you wearing under that robe?” Bentley asks, staring at me, holding a bottle of Stoli. “Wait—don’t tell me. I don’t think I can handle it.” Walking back into the kitchen, he calls out, “I have your underwear, by the way.”

  “I’m taking a bath,” Tammy says, batting her gray eyes at me. “You look remarkably put-together considering last night’s carousing.” She pouts, pushes her lips out. “It is five o’clock, though.”

  “Good genes.” I shrug.

  “Nice robe,” she says, drifting upstairs.

  “Hey, it’s freezing in here,” Bobby says, finally letting go of Jamie. “Then get dressed,” she says bitterly, walking away. “And get over yourself as well.”

  “Hey!” Bobby says, mock-stunned, his mouth opening, his jaw dropping in a parody of shock. He lunges toward her and Jamie squeals, delighted, and dashes into the kitchen and I’m seeing everything clearly, noticing that I’ve been standing in the same place for the last several minutes. Bentley calls out, “Be careful, Bobby—Jamie’s got a gun.”

  And then Jamie’s walking up to me,
out of breath. Behind her Bobby’s tearing through groceries, conferring with Bruce. Bentley asks one of them to taste a fresh batch of martinis.

  “Where are my clothes?” I ask her.

  “In the closet,” she sighs. “In the bedroom.”

  “You guys make a really great couple,” I tell her.

  “Are all the doors locked?” Bobby’s calling out.

  Jamie mouths I’m sorry to me and turns away.

  Bobby’s moving around, slaps Jamie’s ass as he walks past making sure everything’s secure.

  “Hey?” he asks somebody. “Did you forget to turn the alarms on again?”

  5

  As the sun goes down the crew gets shots of a flawless dusk sky before it turns black while the house inside brightens and the six of us—Bentley and Tammy and Bruce and Jamie and Bobby and myself—are slouching in the Frank Gehry chairs that surround the granite table in the dining area and I’m hanging back shyly as two handheld cameras circle us, creating a montage. Then plates and wine bottles are being passed around and despite the Bobby-Hughes-as-stumbling-block-to-$300,000-factor I start feeling peaceful and accepting and in the mood for anything and the constant attention these new friends are pushing my way makes me start ignoring certain things, especially the way Jamie’s eyes widen as they move back and forth between me and Bobby, sometimes cheerfully, other times not. I’m fielding questions about Chloe—the table genuinely impressed I was her boyfriend—and the YouthQuake cover and the band I quit and my workout routine and various muscle supplements and no one asks “Who are you?” or “Where are you from?” or “What do you want?”—questions that aren’t pertinent because they all seem to know. Bentley even mentions press he read about last week’s club opening that made it into London papers and he promises to show me the clippings later, no innuendo attached.